


love as an auto-antonym

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [13]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Miscellaneous short one-shots and deleted scenes. (Always marked as complete; rated Explicit for chapter 7.)





	1. deleted scene #1 from 'where the bruises don't show'

The next day drags on to the night, to the late night. Another emergency press conference is called.

Finn helps Liz prepare, back in her office. Back where it started.

“Are you worried the passion will die?” he questions, running a hand down her hair to smooth it. She doesn’t comment on how he’s trembling. “Aren’t you worried that you’ll like me?”

“I’m much more worried about _you_ liking me.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Her hands twist over the handle of her hairbrush, like she’s imagining it’s his neck. Or his cock.

“Finn, whatever happens - ”

“We’re going to screw each other’s brains out, yeah,” he concludes flatly. “Pity party, furious, or celebratory sex. Or hunted-by-a-mob-about-to-die sex. That’s the only definite thing in this shitstorm.”

She was going to say _I appreciate your trust,_  but his personality has stuck a dick in the face of her diplomacy yet again. “If we survive -” she grabs his tie and yanks him forward. “- I’ll fuck you like I never fucked Richard.”

He frowns. Then a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “Examining that semantically -”

“Shut up.” Fuck it, reapplying her lipstick will only take seconds. She latches her lips onto his and kisses him like how she would suck out his soul if he possessed one and if she had any use for it. It’s how she wishes she’d kissed him the entire time; how she’d imagined kissing him from the moment his welcoming smile had failed to reach his eyes and his handshake was a press too tight.

Liz swipes the piece of gum from Finn’s mouth, quickly breaks their contact, and spits it at him.


	2. future tense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Fifteen minutes left. It should be enough to review in private, provided they keep their heads up and power-walk away from any interruptions. Easier said than done. They round the corner swiftly, and, _great,_ who should be present in the hallway but _him_. His buddies happen to disperse as they approach - he ambles forward, eyes twinkling.

“Brooke! Abigail!” The asshole grins, stops in front of them. “Anyone ever tell you how much _whiter_ your names sound together?”

“Yeah, we’re actually searching for a third friend to round out the typical ensemble,” Abby says, smiling sweet and sadistic. “I’m the brains, she’s the looks. We want a dumb muscle. Maybe you know someone.”

“Maybe I do.” His wide smile doesn’t falter as he nods towards Brooke. “I hope you’re not too busy babysitting to do your actual job.”

“My job _is_ dealing with infants. Abby isn’t one of them. She probably makes more money than you,“ Brooke snaps, “and probably only spends half of it on weed.”

Abby appears scandalized for a second, then shrugs. Brooke briefly reflects that she needs to bring more aides next time.

“Hey, since we’re talking, I’ve gotta ask - ”  he takes a step forward, teeth flashing again, “ - do you plan to ask any real questions today, or are you jumping straight to thinly veiled accusations?”

“We might as well,” Abby replies, folding her arms, “if we’re going tit for tat.”

“I figured you’d be most comfortable speaking in your first language. We’re gracious like that.”

Thirteen minutes left. Goddamn it. If this lug doesn’t get out of their way, she may have to throttle him for real this time. Thankfully, Brooke’s expected retort is interrupted by loud ringing; Abby sighs dramatically upon checking one of her phones, the older one with the cutesy stickers on the back.

“Mom’s calling,” she mutters. “I should take this.” Brooke eyes her as she turns to leave. She pauses to add, “Fuck off.”

Now Brooke is alone with the enemy. A sunny hallway full of people bustling back and forth, and it feels like they’re the sole survivors on opposite sides of a battlefield, blood buzzing with adrenaline and every sense sharpened in anticipation.

“Well, she’s sweet,” he says lightly. “All things considered. Apples and trees.”

They didn’t have very far to fall in the first place. “She’s my secret weapon.”

“'My’?”

“Our,” Brooke amends, without flinching.

“Right.” His laugh is curter than anything he’s said so far. “The communal artillery.”

“Before we begin, I want to remind you of something you seem to have forgotten.” Brooke closes the already-small gap between them, eyes ablaze with cold fury. “Three affairs, one death, two simultaneous strikes and a day of riots, and I am still _the most trouble_ that ever came out of my father’s dick.”

A corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. “I pride myself in problem-solving, Miss Miller.”

“And yet here you are, in my face.” She barely resists the urge to knock that stupid cap off his head. It doesn’t belong there. He doesn’t belong beneath it. “Crawl back to your Commissioner, Delgado. The hearing starts soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason is Jason Delgado as a Deputy Assistant Commissioner or something; Brooke is Richard's unnamed daughter as the Head of Communications for the Mayor or something. Abigail Garvey-Kirkwood is Liz and Finn's kid. I thought Finn would insist on the name starting with an 'A' because it's supposedly advantageous in life...and I don't name human beings well, so I just took a name from _Sound of My Voice_ , since there's already a weird overlap between the names in Brit Marling's work and names in _Babylon_.


	3. deleted scene(s) from 12:02

“...Liz did...something,” Inglis concludes, his frown deepened. “I don't know what. I'd like to keep it that way.”

Finn doesn't think there's a facial expression in human existence that can adequately convey his displeasure. And relief. And something.

“That's a good summary for this month,” he says instead.

“Richard did see something in her.”

“Yeah - blonde hair, blue eyes, two presumably nice tits. Maybe he had a special sixth sense that allowed him to detect daddy issues - ”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Inglis cuts in sharply, stepping close in a single stride and making a cutting motion to match - Jesus, he must really want Finn to shut up. “You do realise that for the past few weeks you've been the person who goes on about Liz's attractiveness the most.”

Fuck.

“Our water cooler's been broken,” Finn replies, with forced joviality, “so I haven't...heard talk or anything. Intentionally or otherwise. I just assumed...because she’s...and he...”

“Finn,” Inglis says flatly. “Is this going to be another problem?”

Finn balks. “You know I'm not interested in...that. In fact, I hate it.”

“For someone who hates it, you’ve been bringing it up a lot lately.”

“Yes, well, you hate crime and you talk about it all the time.”

“Because I’m a _high-ranking police officer_ _._ At the risk of sounding shallow, she’s really not as desirable as you believe she is.”

Unexpectedly, Finn finds himself feeling offended; he decides it's because of whatever the Acting Commissioner is insinuating about his feelings. Which are purely offended. By...feelings. Of offence.

“She’s pretty,” Inglis continues irritably. “Not city-stoppingly, sign-my-life-away pretty.”

“It could be a matter of preference.”

“Whose?”

“Richard’s. The media's.” Finn pauses. “And the most vocal members of heteropatriarchal society.”

“That’s a fancy word from someone who thinks it’s an insult if Tom has a pink diary.”

“Well, Tom likes her.”

“Yes, because _Tom Oliver_ is interested in her sex appeal.”

“Liz and I talked earlier and I told her to trust her instincts,” Finn blurts, in desperation.

Inglis still looks wary, but he backs away from the worse topic. For now. “In those words?”

“No.” It was a missed opportunity, Finn reflects, remembering her borderline delighted reaction days ago, when he'd called himself the master of the dark side. “Look. Liz...feels...things.” Inglis eyes him with increasing dubiousness as he grapples for his next sentence. “And they're stupid, illogical things. Ethical concerns or whatever.”

“...Okay.”

“But sometimes, for whatever reason, she's...not right, exactly,” he backpedals. “But she's worth listening to, overall. Like a public announcement in a crowded place. It's probably not for anyone except a handful of people at most at a time, and it might be disruptive and near-incomprehensible, but there's a small chance she's - relevant. Infrequently.”

Inglis' phone rings then, sparing Finn further trouble; he whips it out of his pocket and smiles grimly at the screen.

“Speak of the devil,” Inglis says. 

“One of them, anyway,” Finn mutters.

* * *

Inglis puts Liz on loudspeaker, clutching his phone harder than necessary.

“I need to make a report,” she says. “About...misconduct and potential corruption, I guess, at the top of the PR department.”

“Liz, if this is about Finn - ”

“I need to report myself.”

He and Finn exchange stunned glances. Finn's heart hammers into his throat. 

“Elaborate,” Inglis snaps. 

“I interfered with the ongoing selection process, drastically shifting the odds in one candidate’s favour. But my actions are unprovable and, I think, unpunishable. In light of that, I’d be willing to resign as soon as possible. Since you’re the Acting Commissioner, I thought you were the best person to call.”

“I might not have the job anymore tomorrow,” he points out cautiously. “I might not be in a position to handle your case.”

“We’ll see,” Liz replies coolly. 

“Hypothetically, if I'm appointed Head Commissioner - couldn’t we talk about this in a few weeks, when we aren’t in the public eye?”

“We could. But I think it’s better if you make a decision now, so I can immediately begin transferring my responsibilities to Mia Conroy and Finn Kirkwood.”

Few things have felt as good for Finn as hearing Liz say his full name as part of a sentence that pertains to her choosing to surrender her job to him and fucking off, which was what he’s been wanting from the moment he first saw her shitty full name. A name that, come to think of it, he’s never said. _Elizabeth Garvey._ It sounds weird. He’ll probably have to say it when he’s announcing her resignation. It’d be bad to hesitate in front of the press; he may have to practice beforehand. Like vocal exercises, but with Liz’s name. Full name. As part of a sentence. Alone. Standing.

Inglis is staring at him oddly. Finn sticks his hands deep into his pockets and stares at the phone like he's trying to spontaneously develop Kryptonian heat vision and burn a hole into it.

Inglis sighs. What an afternoon. Liz is acting self-sacrificing, humble, and calm, while Finn is distracted and, judging by his face, has apparently just experienced a wide variety of emotions within one second.

“Liz…” he begins, tone hardening. “I would’ve liked to impress them based on my own merit and knowledge. Very much, in fact.”

“I understand.”

“And however you interfered - _I don’t want to know_ \- bear in mind that it was an attempt to fix a situation perpetuated by _your_ arrogance and selfishness. You're not doing me a favour, you're righting a wrong. At best.”

“Yes, sir,” Liz says, voice strained with both anxiety and suppressed indignation.

Inglis' grip on the phone loosens somewhat. He glances at Finn questioningly, asking for his opinion if not for his approval.

Finn gives one curt nod. He’s not entirely sure what he’s encouraging.

“We’ll see if we can work something out,” Inglis finishes.  

A loud gulp and a big gasp of relief from the other end, and Finn is suddenly lightheaded.  _Fuck._

“Thank you, sir,” Liz says hoarsely.


	4. slow dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr, for the prompt 'slow dancing' from the Sweet Affectionate Moments meme. 
> 
> Background: pre-relationship, Liz and Finn attend a press ball separately and are forced to spend time together???

It’s late. It seems like a good idea. Liz heads for a corner of the dance floor, Finn on her heels. No familiar faces, thankfully. A slow song is playing - she doesn’t register the words, focused as she is on turning to smile at him without arousing suspicion. 

Finn grabs her offered hand and lifts it at an angle to the side. His grip almost slips when her free hand rests on his hip.

“Liz,” he rasps, leaning in, “that isn’t how I learned to slow-dance.”

“I’m an innovator.”

“Where do you suggest I put my other hand?”

“Wherever you want.” He mirrors her sly smile weakly, gulping. “My shoulder?”

Her _bare_ shoulder. Mentally, she’s prepared for the heat and sweat of his palm; the reality is more sobering. Liz peers deep into his eyes and, for the first time she can remember, he can’t hold her stare. She laces her fingers through his, his own grip tightening.

They’ve been this close before: blocking each other, standing pressed together, or arguing about the wider world at opposite ends of cramped spaces. Their surroundings don't instantly melt away. They’ll need to navigate the dance floor. But it’s only them.   
  
“You lead, I’ll follow,” Liz instructs, and Finn complies.

Swaying is easy, the natural synchrony of their usual movements translating well into dance. He guides her with gentle squeezes and jerks of his head, and she starts to squeeze back, ensuring that he doesn’t collide with anyone either.

(There are plenty of ways to rationalize this moment. Dancing makes them look relaxed and friendly, might quash rumours about dissent in the ranks. However, unlike _someone,_ she isn’t inclined to hammer every feeling so it vaguely resembles logical sense.)

Liz meets Finn’s curious gaze as her touch creeps lower down his hip. Fingers curl into her shoulder, stroke absentmindedly until he catches himself.

To her surprise, he lifts her hand and twirls her, maybe to save face.

Once the turn is complete, she drapes her wrists over his shoulders, letting herself sag a little and nudging him to bend his head. Now his hands land firm on her hips. Finn is steady, she notes. He’s sticking to their rhythm. He’s also flushed and susceptible to infrequent shivers.

She casually claims, “Your old friends are watching you dance with your boss.”  
  
“They’re not my friends,“ Finn mumbles. Mild hostility darkens his dazed expression. “And you’re not really my boss.”  
  
“What would they call us, huh?” asks Liz, choosing to ignore the slight against her authority. “A PR power couple? A match made in Communications hell?” He pulls her in, enough to feel the tickle of his exhale on her forehead, and she places her lips dangerously near his ear. “Don’t get too weak in the knees, you might fall on me.”

His occasional shivers have evolved into full-blown trembling. It’s tempting to smirk and snark. Instead she laughs and rubs his back in what could be a soothing gesture. He rolls his eyes, some tension draining from his body. If her Deputy has taught her anything valuable, it’s that she’s not particularly tenderhearted, nor is she a saviour. But she isn’t him. She can still kill with kindness.

Another twirl later, the music fades. Bringing them to a halt, Finn keeps his gaze locked on her, eyes wide yet soft. 

“You okay?” she checks.

He swallows heavily, takes a second to find his voice. “I’m good.”

The next song begins. Liz draws him closer and says, “You will be.”


	5. dear diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr for ghoulishmalady, for the prompt "I read your diary."

Staying at Finn's place is always weird. Frankly, Liz is most disturbed at the (probable) fact that he  _doesn't_ turn into a bat and sleep upside-down in a dank rafter. But at least it's quieter than her apartment, and he's less tense in his own territory, and a less-tense Finn is at greater risk of accidental sweetness. His recent suggestion had been startling, but not unpleasant - loath as she is to admit it, it  _is_ more convenient to leave some of her stuff here. 

When she emerges from his bedroom, Finn is sitting on the sofa, working on his laptop. She strides over without a word; he remains outwardly apathetic to her presence as she rests her weight against one arm of the sofa. It's a habit of theirs, waiting to see who'll cave first in the smallest things - a fun minigame in the larger teeth-gnashing beat-'em-up of their lives, if you will. 

"Soooo," she begins, "I read your diary," 

Finn's head jerks up. His mouth works immediately, though the rest of his face isn't anywhere near as committed. "Let's get this straight, it's a  _journal_ , not a diary - "

"Yeah, yeah, you're afraid of perceived inferiority from language you perceive as gendered, what else is new?"

"You tell me. You're the one who read my _journal_." He slaps the laptop's screen down and leans back kicking one knee over the other, arms folded, trying to exude an air of judgment but really hiding how his hands are trembling. "Is there a particular reason why you've invaded my privacy?"

His tone is more tepidly snide than heated or icy. Since an ongoing argument about transparency forms the bedrock of their relationship, there's no point pretending it's a major breach of trust; they'd smudged that line from the moment he'd gloated over obtaining her phone records and leaked them to the press with a handpicked photo of her and Richard. _Telling_ him about her intrusion is as sporting as they can be with each other. Or anyone, for that matter. 

"It started as an accident," Liz says, folding her arms as well. "I was putting things in a drawer and it was right there. I didn't realise what it was until the bottom of the first page." She'd acted on impulse and the cover had been unlabelled, not that a label would've discouraged her - if anything, she would've rushed to open it. 

"Foggy brain today, huh."

"To be fair, it looked like a handwritten draft for a work email until you made a _Spaceballs_ reference." 

"I'll be sure to make it more entertaining for the next time you decide to play detective." 

"Why don't you _ever_ mention me?" Liz blurts. "I mean, by name? Or, just, actions?" 

She'd meant to pose the question smiling coyly, like it was a joke -  _haha, funny how you meticulously recount boring details about your workdays without referring to me as a person you intimately interact with, it's like you're writing alternate universe fanfiction for your life where everything is the same except I'm replaced by an immaterial, silent being whom you occasionally briefly allude to as your 'boss'_.  _Haha! Haha!_

Okay, maybe it is better this way. 

Finn's eyebrows have raised - from curiosity or alarm, she can't tell. "How far did you read, exactly?"

"Starting from around when we first -" She sticks her index finger through her curled fist and pumps them in sync several times, ending in a shrug. 

"Jesus." Then, horrified: " _Is that supposed to be_ _sex?"_

"I skimmed most entries." 

"Right, and thanks to your massive ego, your eyes are specially trained to spot your three-letter nickname out of full-page blocks of text." Liz merely bites her lower lip and nods. Playing field levelled somewhat by her sudden hint of vulnerability, his gaze darkens; his voice dips to borderline suggestive. "Don't tell me you feel  _neglected_."

"I feel like your reporting skills have shrivelled and died like a tomato plant after you've tried to talk to it."  

Liz flops onto the sofa beside him with an exaggerated sigh. He scoots over minutely. 

"Have you considered that this could've been a deliberate set-up to demonstrate how it's possible to maintain draconian control over a narrative while technically still telling the truth?" Finn questions. 

"No, not for a single fucking second, because there's no way you're that patient, cunning, or proactive." 

"All right, Liz, the reason why you never show up in my journal..." Turning to face her, he taps his forehead, smirking lightly. "I store every noteworthy interaction in here. Word for word. They're not easy to casually summarise. Every day? Impossible."

She scoots over, in Finn's direction. Now there's no more sofa left for him to retreat to. Her serene side-eye partially wipes the smirk off his face.

"I don't believe you," Liz says. 

"You don't believe that's why you're not in my journal, or you don't believe that I remember?" 

"Both. You are pretty old," she adds, lest he assume it's a passive-aggressive jab in the second case. 

Finn watches her expression for a second longer, his own faltering until she captures his lips with hers. He seems somewhat distracted for the rest of the night. She does her best to distract him from that distraction, with debatable success; she falls asleep staring at the back of his head, slightly worried that she did overstep a boundary and drastically misjudged his reaction. 

In the morning, she doesn't wake up next to Finn. The realisation supersedes her usual need for caffeine. In his place is a notebook - not the  _diary_ , she determines, but almost identical in its plain appearance. She flips it open. 

 _Day One_ , _Year One_ , _Hour One,_  Liz reads, eyes widening.  _I arrived at Richard's office expecting a typical meeting. Instead I encountered what can only be described as a PR Disney Princess stepped off a HDTV screen, who probably should've been introduced singing about Communications with a background chorus of American Siri's misreading a transcript of her insipid TED Talk..._

Laughing, she turns the page. 


	6. bedside manner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr for almaviva90, for the prompt "You're special to me".

"I hope you realise how lucky you are," Liz says, in that particular tone she adopts following a random contemplative spell. "I don't do this often, you know." 

She's curled up on one side of her bed, over the covers but already dressed for sleep. Settling onto the other side of the mattress, Finn reflects that she could be referring to any number of things, such as critical thinking or not staring a screen while lying down. 

"The whole...sleeping-with-someone deal," she continues. 

He can't decide whether to laugh loudly or sputter in surprise, or accuse her of blatantly lying. His tongue is even more confused, getting caught somewhere in-between, and out comes a bizarre noise he'll likely never be able to replicate. 

Liz is unfazed. "As in, literally." 

"For fuck's sake," Finn grumbles as he shifts to face her. "What are you talking about, Liz?

"I never had a slumber party growing up. It's the root of my extensive psychological damage."

There's a strain in her voice that suggests _some_  deeper meaning lurking beneath the light tone and half-smile.  

"So, what did you do with all of the men you shagged before me?" he wonders, willfully projecting aloofness. "Send them home?" She shakes her head. "Did you have a daytime-only policy? Go at it for the whole night?" Another alternative is lying awake for hours on end, eyes peeled on the ceiling, though he can't imagine her staying still and silent for an extended period of time after that much stimulation. 

"They'd sleep on the couch or something." Liz's eyes gleam at the recollection; those aftermaths must've been a power trip. He can't say he feels sorry for the poor bastards. "Since I'd usually be the one who brought them home. And they usually weren't boyfriends, anyway."

"Right." They haven't been good at hiding malicious intent towards each other since that ill-fated truce early in September, so he's fairly certain that currently isn't happening. Doesn't make this conversation less awkward. Or Liz less oblivious. 

"Other people are so  _loud,_ " she gripes.

"And unlike fridges, you can't ethically hit them until they break and shut up." His brow furrows. "But I doubt that's all. You could've worn earplugs or invested in a sturdy muzzle."

"I just don't like people in my space. _In_ me is fair game as long as they fuck off afterwards," Liz adds, preempting the obvious snarky remark. 

The bed suddenly feels foreign to Finn. An uncomfortable question and accompanying mental image have been itching at the back of his mind for a while; now they've surged to the forefront. It really shouldn't matter. Really. Logically, he's aware. However, he's learned that logic has less place between them than men have had in Liz's bed post-sex. Apparently. 

He clears his throat. "Liz, was there...? You've fucked someone else here, haven't you. In this flat."

The intensity of the glare she casts makes him wonder if he sounded too accusatory. "Not on the bed. On the couch. Unless I was ever so shitfaced I forgot, but in that case, we probably wouldn't have been able to make it past the bedroom door." 

"Lovely. You're truly a model example for positive human interactions and working with law enforcement." Newfound hatred for the couch aside, he's relieved. But a new question occurs, even more insistent: "Why am _I_ an exception?"

Liz blinks several times - expression melted back into deceptively neutral, like she hadn't considered it before. Somehow her bewilderment is more distressing than her scrutiny. At least her judgment is a reliable challenge to defend against. Otherwise he's left judging himself. 

"If I've been unwelcome from the start - " Finn begins irritably, hoping to be interrupted so he won't have to find the rest of the sentence. When no answer is forthcoming, he tries again, feebler despite his best effort, "Am I?" 

She rests a hand on his shoulder. He barely manages not to jump at the contact.

"Of course not. You're _special_ to me." Oh, God. His heart races at how she uttered 'special' like it's an especially filthy word. Liz's touch creeping up his neck is soft; her voice is not. "You've been the only person who hasn't bothered me with fidgeting or cold feet or snoring." Her free hand lands by his head with a muffled  _thud_. "The only one I don't regret waking up to."

Annnnd he's pinned to the mattress. 

"The only fuck good enough to keep within reach," she finishes. 

"Flatterer," rasps Finn, fingers sliding up her sides beneath her hoodie. He delights in the resulting shiver. "Remind me to set your couch on fire."

Liz's hands shift to the headboard behind him. "And you accuse me of senseless violence towards my fridge." 


	7. distant continuation of 'up yours, die'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This probably _isn't_ the promised 'hunted-by-a-mob-about-to-die' smut, because I think that happens to them pretty frequently.

It's nearing the end of the day, but the nightmare has just begun. 

A particularly PR-friendly officer has died on duty. (“Don’t look at me like that,” Finn had told an appalled Liz. “We both know you’re thinking it, too.”) In literal record time, the department had prepared a heartfelt press statement expressing sorrow over the situation and gratitude for his long service, extending condolences to his large family.

The only problem? Liz’s spellcheck auto-corrected ‘condolences’ to ‘condiments’. In their haste, they hadn’t caught the mistake until Inglis read it aloud during a scheduled press conference in front of several independent journalists as well as the usual reporters. (Liz’s idea - brilliant, if not for the circumstances.)

Now Liz and Finn rush down the department floor’s main hallway, ignoring the questions and new developments shouted at them. One of Liz’s phones vibrates in her pocket but she doesn’t have time to check it, much less steel herself for the carnage, because Finn has grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the waiting...elevator. Several people try to follow.

“Fuck off,” Finn snarls; he’s ready to attack when some foolhardy subordinates seem close to disobeying.

“We’re gonna hatefuck in here!” Liz shouts, and takes advantage of their astonishment to slam the ‘close’ button. The doors slide shut without further trouble. For now.

She heaves a sigh of relief and dread and turns to find Finn glaring poison-tipped daggers at her, his anxiety betrayed by both hands twitching on his elbows.

“That was unnecessary,” he says.

“Oh, so sorry. You could go with Inglis, alone, while I go back up and set the record straight.” Liz waits like she expects a real answer. “Mmm. That’s what I thought.”

The elevator stops - not their floor. Finn snarls again and jabs the ‘close’ button before anyone outside can react.

“Liz, by my estimation, we have a minute to come up with a plan - ”

“You know the amount of time it takes to get to the first floor?”

“Ground floor.”

“First floor!”

“It’s  _at ground level.”_ He glares at his watch. “And now we have fifty-something fucking seconds - ”

The elevator gods must hate them even more than whoever’s waiting below, because the lights go out as the elevator lurches and shudders to a familiar stop.

Liz barely avoids colliding with Finn as she teeters on her heels. Counter-intuitively, he draws closer as the lights flicker back on, but if he’s expecting her to give ground, he’ll be disappointed. Well, more disappointed than his default state. Invading her personal space fails in part because she has a very fluid concept of its existence.

“Let me guess,” she snaps, “this is my fault, too.”

His scowl deepens. “It’s not a guess if it’s a given.”

“Finn, I don’t telekinetically control all technology in Scotland Yard. If I could, your fax machine would’ve exploded by now - which, frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t done on its own.”

“Faxing is the most secure method of exchanging information.”

“It’s fucking passing around pieces of paper!”

Finn momentarily swaps his scowl for a weary expression. “This is like getting a foot cramp on the way to the fucking gallows.”

“That’s an interesting comparison.” Liz deliberately shoves the tip of one heel between his shoes. “Were you executed in a past life for crimes against humanity and common sense?”

“Maybe I was a martyr.”

“I could tell you all about that.”

“I said ‘martyr’, not ‘labouring under the delusion caused by a victim complex’.”

The elevator darkens and jolts again and this time, Liz does fall onto Finn, whose back smacks into the nearest wall. Great. They're squished together, dangerously close to skin-to-skin, her breath puffing hot against his neck while his heartbeat races beneath her palm splayed over his chest. He's oddly slow to react. When he does, it isn’t disgust.

“Liz,” he says in a strained tone, “don’t move.”

“Why not?” she intends to demand. It ends up as a taunt. Her open hand slams against the wall, beside his head.

“Don’t. Move.”

“Why. Not?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Yeah, I knew that when the elevator fucking stopped.”

She brushes his hair out of his eyes, gratified by how they spark and widen. Looking thoroughly fed-up, Finn overcomes a moment of hesitation and shifts his legs so he deliberately brushes against her kneecap with -

“Oh,” Liz says in a tiny voice. Her hand doesn’t drop. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Just -” she swallows, “- think unsexy thoughts.”

“That’s somewhat difficult since your - ” his voice wavers more than his stare, “- chest is against mine.”

Her gaze drifts downwards. “Want me to take care of it?”

“ _So_ romantic,” Finn snarks, then winces.

They kiss as an ungainly, ungodly extension of the fight. Her teeth click against his and - yup, there’s the fucking taste of nicotine. Good thing the gum isn't there. He clutches her hip and reverses their positions so her back hits the wall, just short of a slam; she hitches her leg up to his waist and, for once, Finn immediately understands her cue and cups her ass so he can push her -

“No,” she gasps.

He looks stricken. “No?”

Liz’s head is spinning. God, they’re going to fuck all of the breathable air out of this elevator. “Turn me around.”

What a way to go.

He meets her heated gaze with exceptional steadiness. “Do it yourself.”

“I thought you’d jump at the chance to manhandle me,” Liz muses, deftly unbuckling his belt.

She smirks when Finn has a change of heart and acquises - until he hikes up her skirt to smack her ass.

Her knees buckle. Her whole cunt feels decidedly quivery, too.

“If you’re playing the blame game,” she rasps, “you should hollow out my phone and stick your dick in it instead. Might be a roomy fi-”

Another smack. Liz yelps and rests her forehead against the mirrored wall; it’s cool where her skin is burning, already sticky with perspiration. She has to suppress a whimper at his palm rubbing over inflamed flesh, soothing and taunting and possessive.

“Would you look at that?” Finn coos into her ear. “You were actually right. I do enjoy manhandling you.”

“I hear it’s cathartic for powerful people to give up control. I guess the reverse is also true.”

He yanks her by the hair, forcing her head back - her eyes naturally land on their reflections, just in time to watch herself gulp heavily. “I’m serious about you looking.”

Liz’s whimper escapes, extends into a whine with each millisecond without further contact. It’s very likely that his tight grip is the only thing keeping her upright and her loose grip on sanity is the only thing keeping her from whirling around and pouncing on him. Then a third smack has her crying out, more from need than pain. He grinds his straining cock against her and she wiggles urgently in response.

“What the actual fuck are you waiting for?” she demands. “Is your dick a vampire?”

She sees him shaking his head, exasperated. “Liz - ”

“An ancient abomination that needs an invitation to enter?”

Finn yanks down her panties and runs two wickedly clever fingers along her sopping cunt. They crook, teasing, but stop short of circling her clit or sliding in. Liz almost sobs in frustration - the impulse intensifies when he brings the slickened fingers to her mouth.

“Suck,” he orders.

“You do.” She blows away stray strands of hair dangling in front of her face. “In multiple ways, apparently.”

Fury flashes in his eyes. His fingers push past her lips, exactly as rough as she wants it, and Liz complies with a loud moan that redoubles on them in the enclosed space, that he answers in kind.

She lifts one leg, resting her kneecap against the wall, and grinds her ass against his bare cock. Hissing, he grabs her hips to help her sink onto him. Once he’s fully sheathed, she twists sharply and hears his breath hitch. They fit together so well. They always do. Especially when they don’t.

Liz’s entire body shivers as she adjusts. “God - it’s like you're a bottle and I’m a corkscrew.”

Hands caress her breasts, firm and delightfully warm. “Please. Please stop talking.”

“Cockscrew.”

He fucks into her, hard, hard enough to make her forehead gently bump into the mirror. Fortunately for him, moaning soon replaces words and, if she’s being perfectly honest, thoughts. The angle is deeper than she's used to - she pants raggedly against the increasingly foggy glass, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the smooth surface.

At a particularly brusque thrust, her back arches at a degree that would be worrying if she had the presence of mind to notice anything other than what's between her thighs.

“ _Oh!_ Oh, fuck, fucking fuck,” she babbles, “I can feel you throbbing inside me - ”

“You like this, right?” The sentence ends in a growl. “You like getting your brains shagged to smithereens by your Deputy.”

Liz catches her breath. “Hell yeah, I like it. I like it so much, I’m thinking of changing it to your only duty. After all, I have a lot of brains.” In the mirror, his expression contorts with renewed rage; it'd be pointless to hide how she preens. “No more press statements, or spying, or talking to journalists. Just waiting to be used. You’d be my footstool, my _Ikea_ footstool, my toady.” She may or may not be rambling. “My personal insufferable sex toy that isn’t even packaged with complimentary water-based lube  - ”

“Shut the _fuck up,”_ Finn hisses. “Just shut up. Shut up for _once_ in your goddamn life.”

“You don’t know a thing about my goddamn life,” she spits. “You don’t know anything about effective Communications. You don’t even know where my g-spot - ”

He pulls her onto him to meet an especially penetrating thrust - and there’s white behind her eyelids, a soft scream leaving her lips.

She doesn’t need to lift her head to confirm that he’s smirking, though she does anyway, for the queasy thrill it elicits. 

“You were saying?” he prompts sweetly.

“Sex toy - _ah!_ Fuck, Finn!”

Finn nips her earlobe and pants, “I’m gonna make you come so hard.”

“To my senses?” That earns her another bite, this one at the base of her neck. “Ow! Forget your dick, are _you_ a fucking vampire?”

“I’m fairly certain I haven’t been leaking venom into you.”

“Is that a _Twilight_ reference? Why do you know _Twilight_ references?”

“Why do _you?”_

Figuring they’re at a stalemate, Liz tucks her head into the crook between her arm and elbow and mewls. The unexpected sound seems to weaken Finn’s resolve; he loosens one of his own and buries his face in her nape. His lips are gentle, so gentle, surreal compared to the harshness of their rapid breaths and how he’s pounding into her.

He pauses groaning into her skin to murmur, “Touch yourself.”

It requires a bit of creative maneuvering, but she’s able to lower a shaky hand to grind her clit against her palm on the brutal upstroke. Belatedly, deliriously, she thinks she should’ve removed her shoes at some point, because now her curling toes are crammed against the tips and _fuck_ her back is going to ache for _days_. Assuming she survives later or, in fact, doesn’t die here.

The sobering thought tears into her ecstasy and makes it all the more frayed at the edges and all the more insistent in its rush to build.

Liz keens. “Finn, I’m gonna -”

His hips stutter and - fuck him, his lips curve into a smug grin against her neck as his thrusts slow, so she has to resort to erratically fucking back onto him and hoping her whimpers suffice as heartfelt pleas for more. Everything hurts. Everything screams with joy. Any pangs of discomfort are offset by the heat coiling below her belly; their eyes meet in the mirror, bright and dark and mutually startled despite knowing full well what comes next.

“Keep watching,” he says, and pushes forward.

She thrashes near-lopsided in his arms, control wrecked beyond recognition. Literally - her brain scarcely registers her writhing reflection as herself. Finn mercilessly rubs her nipples through her shirt as he swivels his cock dead-centre on that same maddening spot and growls for her to come. Pleasure wracks her senses until she’s wailing and clawing at him and the walls with her free hand, until the burn fades into a buzz, into a drowsy tingling threatening to dissolve into numbness.

And then a broken noise reminds her that she’s stuck in a stuffy elevator on a shit day and she still has one very pent-up second-in-command behind her.

“C’mon, Finn,” she pants, one arm braced against the mirror as she ruts onto his cock with a fresh surge of vigour.

His breath punches out in gasps. “God, Jesus, _Liz_.” Oh, that’s one prayer she'll never tire of hearing. She may not have electronic telekinesis, but she focuses on his eyes, willing them open - he’d be confronted by the sight of his vulnerability, a greater opponent than she could ever be. No dice. He’s tensing. “ _Liz_ …I - oh -”

“Stop. Stop now.”

He freezes mid-thrust, arms quaking around her body. Lips trembling, his eyes open and shine like he wants to fucking _cry_.

“You'll make a mess,” she explains, between heaving breaths. “Let me go.”

Finn slips out. He relaxes his grip as she disentangles her legs, too dazed by her command to complain beyond a grunt. Before he can speak, Liz reverses their positions so he's the one slammed against the wall, attacking his lips with hers and leaving her hand on his cock so she can smear the copious pre-come over the head with her thumb.

She sinks onto her knees.

“ _Jesus,_  Liz -” Then her mouth is on him, tight and nearly as hot as her cunt.

The back of Finn’s head hits the wall. He goes rigid and groans; she likes to imagine he’s reacting to glimpsing his expression in the opposite mirror. Fingers twine in her hair and tug, just the right amount of painful, a halfhearted attempt at steering that only encourages her to suck harder to assert her control.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes. “Liz, can you taste yourself? Can you taste how you came all over my cock?” She would love to answer verbally but has the prescience to realise that the sight of her lips parted and wet with spit and pre-come might set him off, so she settles for moaning in the affirmative.

“Let me come,” he whimpers. She wonders what the hell is stopping him, but she rewards the sheer desperation in the request with a finger pressed to that sweet spot behind his balls. His hips buck - she pushes back. “Let me come, please, if this fucking lift fucking starts before I fucking come I might actually die before the mob has a chance to kill us - ”

 _Up yours,_  she thinks, and drags her tongue in a zigzag across the underside of his cock.

Finn throws his head back again and yells wordlessly as she sucks every spurt down. A second or so into his orgasm she suspects he’s resumed begging, but she can’t decipher the garbled sentences, only her name and fragments of interestingly arranged expletives. He releases her hair, probably to clap his hand to his mouth to muffle the last of his cries, but she snatches his wrist and forces him to keep it there, prompting more cursing.

Without breaking eye contact, she pulls her mouth off him. Licks her lips.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “That was - that’s a good way to prepare to die.”

“You’re assuming I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“How - ” he laughs deliriously, “ - by sucking my soul out of my cock?”

“Of course not.” Liz tucks him in and pats his softening dick like she’s comforting it. “You don’t have a soul and you barely have a cock.”

“You seemed to be at full capacity a minute ago and you’re definitely not small-mouthed.”

He offers his hand. She accepts it and stands, checks herself in the fogless mirror at the other end of the elevator and rearranges her clothes until she looks passably presentable. Seconds later, the elevator starts moving. Maybe the elevator gods are just really invested in their sex lives.

The doors part to reveal a mercifully quiet hallway devoid of a pack baying for their blood. Liz almost grabs his hand again, then catches herself.

“At least we’ll be together in Hell,” she says.

Finn straightens his rumpled tie. “Different circles, Liz. Mine is wrath. You’re going to the very centre to star in Traitors Under Ice.”

She tilts her head in genuine contemplation. “I thought we’d both go to lust.”

“You, maybe.”

“We did just fuck in an elevator en route to a press conference to apologise for botching condolences to the family of an officer who died on duty.”

“Point taken.” Since he's seemingly allergic to agreeing with her too much, his expression sours. “Lift.” 

“Elevator.” Liz pretends to spot something on her index finger and pretends to lick it off. “I think I have a greater grasp of going down.”

“Sure. _In flames_.”

She unsuccessfully hides a smile as Finn storms ahead. To steer out of this crisis, she'll have to let him have one of the reins. It isn't _entirely_ bad. Desperate times call for desperate measures, if by 'measures' you mean 'rough sex' and by 'times' you mean 'daily occurrences'. 


	8. random smut #1

Liz's kisses spread like wildfire. Squirming beneath her, Finn kisses back, desperate and messy.

"Good, you're so good for me," she purrs. He looks up at her with big, _wet_ puppy eyes and _whines,_  of fucking course, because at the end of the day he's just desperate for a modicum of acknowledgement. Full-on praise is, like, instantaneously orgasmic. A delicious thought occurs to her. "Say it, Finn. Say you'll be good."

He turns his head and mumbles something.

"Louder."

"I'll be good, okay!" he practically shouts. "I'll be really good, I'll be a fucking saint!" His voice breaks and trembles as it lowers. "Just let me - _Jesus,_  fuck, let me, Liz, _please_ \- "

One thing she's noticed about Finn: whenever he can keep his eyes open, he always looks so _grateful,_  as if he can't believe his dick is making contact with her body and she isn't ripping it off. (Which, she supposes, is a perfectly reasonable reaction on his part, but it's still a rush. It's still sexy as fuck.)

In the end, he comes with a near-sob, her sucking on his nipple and one hand fisted into his hair, cockhead lightly rubbing between her bare thighs. As he's panting from the aftershocks, she drapes a leg over his waist. He slides two long, come-slick fingers into her cunt; she grips his wrist to control how he fucks her, the speed and angle and roughness.

Later, they turn off the lights. Finn tentatively puts his arms around Liz, pressing his face to the nape of her neck. His cheeks are still damp with sweat and at least one other liquid substance she knows he won't admit to.

"Good boy," she says, reaching back to pet his head, the matted soft curls she's grown fond of. He whines again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up using a different version of the second-last sentence for 'having and holding'.


	9. firsts

“...I'm just worried, that's all,” Liz finishes. 

“We were both there for first word,” Finn reminds her. “You were there for first steps. It’s fine.”

“But that was _luck,_ ” she points out, exasperated and more than a little angry that the father of her child is being so blase, now, of all times. “A Saturday night, and when I was sick. What else are we missing out on?”

Abigail puts down her crayon and regards her parents seriously. “Disappointment,” she says.

“See?” Finn crows. “Fine.”

Liz sighs and admits, “First use of sarcasm _is_ a pretty big milestone.”


	10. ask question, get answer

“Two words,” Liz says, swivelling her chair dramatically to face Inglis and Sharon, “Twitter Q&A's.”

She hears a pen drop. She assumes it's (one of) Finn's.

“One word: no,” Inglis replies.

“I’ll - someone will filter the questions before they reach you, of course,” she adds, unheeding of this initial rejection, as usual. “But it has to be authentic.”

“Should we register everyone for Instagram, while we're at it?” Finn's voice chimes from behind her.

Insults based on her previous job usually mean that he's still warming up. “No, because you shouldn't take photos,” Liz retorts over her shoulder. “Your big head casts a gigantic shadow.” She pauses. “That was about your arrogance, by the way. Any applicability to cranium size is a coincidence.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Charles, now is an opportune time to shore up our media presence in a casual, non-threatening way - ”

“Like the buzz surrounding a public sector mouser cat, but with the top brass instead. Isn't Liz perfect at the forefront for that sort of thing?” She finally whips around to give Finn a stink-eye, just in time to catch the start of his smirk - was he _waiting_ for her to turn? “God bless America, our shiny, genetically-gifted bastard child with a rebellious streak and a superiority-inferiority complex.”

“Finn,” Liz snaps, “try to calm the fuck down and not cream yourself at the 9 a.m. meeting.” Inglis doesn't leap to his defense. Finn recoils slightly at her jab, smirk faltering near-imperceptibly.

“Save it for the 3:30,” Tom adds, boy-scout gleeful as usual, then looks thoroughly chastised when nobody laughs.


End file.
